Archive | March, 2010

Tough Crowd

31 Mar

I’ll get back to the real Georgie.Jelly after this short interlude, but I just wanted to take the time to congratulate D.G Dawkins for creating the second issue of this wonderful magazine.  Well done. It was really cool of you to do that.

In this issue, they interview Owen Hatherley who is about the only person I know that can make architecture cool.  Partly because he is a youngster and partly because he is a genius, he has this accessible, fresh view of universally commented on buildings.  Also, Ebe Oak who is a musician AND healer, is hopefully going to divulge some secrets of the ‘high-art’ realm so I can use them on this blog.

Issue drops tomorrow and can be picked up for free at galleries, bars, cafes and Universities across London. It can also be seen digitally here.


A Little Regulation

24 Mar

Gentlemen. I’m sensing a monogamy crisis amongst our generation. I know I’ve harped on about it before but WTF. Stop cheating, just stop it. Films lie. There is as much truth in films as in Tom Cruise’s sexuality. Nobody lives happily ever after anymore. Where has all the romance gone?

Hi Mark Owen hiiiii, having fun in sex rehab? It sure looks like you are. Well done for going to The Sun and declaring you’ve had over 11 affairs because now, not one respectable girl is going to touch you with a barge pole ever again. Hopefully including your wife, and this is a good thing. I’m also going to stop buying your records. Could it be magic? That’s slutty Mark and no it couldn’t.

Vernon Kay. Thank god that cheesy northern smile has been wiped off your face at last. See that pretty lady next to you, your wife Tess? Yes? Well listen to this. You need to buy her a new car. Yes that’s right, a brand new Dodge Caliber with diamante hubcaps. Then you need to serenade her with a mandolin like Captain Corelli because guess what? Earlier today she blow dried her goddam hair. She probably shaves most of her body, if not gets it waxed which I’m telling you now is pretty painful. She also wears sexy but punishing dresses that are liable to give her a coronary due to lack of slack around the rib area, all to please you. And what do you do in return? Have sex text with someone who’s got 800 bucks worth of boobs. Buy Tess a car. Like now.

Hey Jesse James, why don’t you go and rain on Sandra Bullocks parade? She just won an Oscar for god’s sake and you’ve pissed all over it with your tattooed lady friend, the one who claims she didn’t know you were in a relationship. Well this is what you need to do Jesse. You need to get a facebook page. Get a facebook page and tell the world you are in a relationship so mistakes like this don’t happen. And this goes for all guys in relationships too. You need to click the button and put that shit on your profile. If you don’t, it’s just cheap . And weird. And a bit suspicious. People already know everything else about your life through those adolescent pictures of you at Uni downing snake bites, so what harm can declaring a relationship do? Think about it.

On a similar note. Tiger Woods is making a comeback this week and I read somewhere that he wants to, “hear a clap here and there”. Are you serious? Really? Really Tiger Woods? The general public are more likely to come on down there and pop a cap in yo ass. I’d watch your back dude, seriously.

Hark At Yee BB

19 Mar

Firstly, Happy Spring! Even if you’re not Jewish, this is the time to start anew. Lastly, (and you may have been able to tell from my last post) but I have been thinking a lot about the countryside lately.  I know what you’re thinking, what happened to second and third etc,etc? Answer:  life is too short for that so pipe down. All you need is first and last, pure and simple.

I spent last weekend in Cornwall and quite frankly, this place nails country living Justin Hammer style.  Cornwall is like the CEO of rolling hills and breathtaking scenery and it also harbours some of the cleanest beaches in the entire world.  What’s that Gloucestershire? Go fuck yourself.  Anyway, I found that it wasn’t just the steep hills and brisk sea air that nearly gave me a heart attack and made me nostalgic for my youth but also, the curious locals.  In the countryside it’s completely acceptable to neglect personal hygiene for several decades, to grow turnips in your pocket and to prolong and roll your ‘r’s.  Characteristics such as this also correspond with Isle of Wight folk including the subject of this great new post, Mr. Bibbly Bob- god rests his soul.

When life was good, and we were that annoying townie family that moved from London to the countryside to try and rear sheep, we used to live next door to Bibbly Bob.  He lived in a caravan amongst a community of logs and that must be why my parents gave him the nickname ‘Bob the Log’ and why I now know not to give a nickname to someone who has already got a nickname because let’s be honest, Bibbly Bob was probably not his real name and would have sufficed without adding Bob the Log to it as well. Jesus. Anyway, Bibbly Bob was a cross between a peasant and the Animal muppet.  He exuded aromas of mud, wet dogs, woodlice, logs, mice in his caravan, cabbage, and as I mentioned above, way too long without consideration for his, or his children’s hygiene.  Despite all this, BB was the local heartthrob.  He had two lovers whilst we were living there and the second, Liz, became my mother’s chief school run companion.  I know every chick should have a dark, torturous side to their personality to keep things interesting and everything but when your teeth are like tombstones, do NOT smile at little children in the back of the car. Actually, just don’t smile at anyone. Brush your teeth right now Liz, if not yesterday, ok?

The romance that emitted from BB obviously rubbed off onto his animals.  This one time, our pure and innocent Dil dog was corrupted by one of BB’s mongrels. The only reason we knew she was with child was because when she grew nipples, my brother and I were caught trying to milk her.  I know, pick up your mind, because I just blew it all over the place.  Poor Dil, although I don’t consent to her taste in men, she has never been the same since.

I appreciate that some of us own houses. Some of us have real jobs like trying to reincarnate Michael Jackson or something like that, but some people simply thrive off the land and in BB’s case, off logs.  On behalf of my father I would like to thank BB for providing us with fuel to stoke the fire on those cold winter nights when all we had to keep us warm was some straw and some frankincense. Oh wait, that was baby Jesus. Anyway my point is, to Bibbly Bob we owe our goddam lives. RIP.

Ps- On a similar note, big up to the farmer from Padstow who told me a fascinating story about crop rotation on Saturday night. Wowzers.

Pps- When I asked my mother if she remembered any interesting facts about BB she said, “No. But his daughter was very good with birds of prey”. Thank you and goodnight.

Georgie Vs. London

9 Mar

I love London, but recently it’s taken all of my strength to muster up some good reasons why I’m actually living here.  This morning, on the tube, someone sneezed on my hand.   There are some hoodies that live on my road who carry weapons into the park at night and I’m not going to lie, sometimes I see things in London that just make me want to kill myself.  See here:

This is nice, isn’t it? Remember that time when Hackney became cool? Well, thanks to all those creative types migrating east, the housing association are firing up World War 3.  I’d imagine that Fish/Chips/Burger restaurant next door does pretty good business now too.

It’s nice that the council choose to represent their boroughs through the form of sculpture.  This one is particularly good.  Forget Michaelangelo, when it comes to organised art, whoever the hell created this piece of aesthetic pleasure sure had their innovation jacket on that day!  I wonder how long it took them to come up with an elephant carrying a castle, for Elephant and Castle? Thank god they painted the elephant red though otherwise it might blend into the sky and that 1980’s prefabricated office block.  Man, it must rock to work up there but I think it would be a little discomforting to stare down at a red elephant standing on a rusty platform.  It could be worse though, you could have to stare down onto a bald sweaty man like Ashley Cole eating a McDonalds- god forbid.

The worst thing about living in London is the commute. Every time I get on the tube I feel like filling my face with a shit load of cheese.  What you need to do, is not smile when you commute.  When I first moved to London I used to smile while I commuted like I was travelling in the goddam lounge carriage.  This nearly gave away the secret that I was not a real Londoner.  You must not make the same mistake as I did. You’re a Londoner now, you’re tough and commuting is what you do. What’s that I hear you say country folk? You’re jealous that you don’t get to travel on a sweaty train every day? You’re failing at life because your face isn’t shoved in an arm-pit? You would rather take the tube and have black bogeys than collect those fresh eggs out of the chicken pen every morning?

No, I thought not.  I’m getting drunk tonight.

That man up there sure is lucky to live in a place like Ssex Tower.  You get to stand out on your thrusting balcony eating a Ginsters scotch egg like you’re the King of Ssex.  Ironically, this building doesn’t look dissimilar to the one I live in right now.  Furthermore, when I discovered that my building was only 40% housing association and that the flat was within my meagre budget and had new carpets, I got into the estate agents car, phoned my mother and screamed with absolute joy.  She didn’t hear the joy and thought that I had been stabbed.  That was a good day.

Anyway, I’m hoping that a bit of spring sunshine is going to turn these daily disappointments into warm nostalgia for London.  Either this, or I’m jaunting off to Alaska for the rest of my life.

Bad Romance?

4 Mar

During the Great Depression, farmers used to battle barehanded to win the prettiest girl in the village.

Despite the fact that he looks thicker than a box of cats, I’d say the best man won.

Yes yes Farmer Obadiah, if I had a girlfriend that looked just like Phil Spector, I’d be beaming like that too!